All of Me
by caprelloidea
Summary: A collection of one shots I've written that take place during or directly after Season 5.
1. All of Me

Notes: A 5x21 episode tag. Includes fluff and snuggles.

* * *

It's the first thing she notices - the cold, the rain - after the euphoria fades.

She has her face tucked into his neck, breathing in the scent of wet earth, the sweet smell of rain falling just this side of the advent of spring. His hair is cold and rough between her fingertips, teasing at the sensitive underside of her wrist. His breath is hot, heaving out of his chest and down the back of her neck, ruffling the collar of his shirt. His heart - oh God, his _heart_ \- is thumping wildly, answering on a stuttered echo to hers.

But her _toes_ -

"You must be freezing, love."

"I don't _care_ ," she says.

And she really doesn't. She throws her arms back around him until her hands are locked over her wrists, scrambling up until she's standing on the tips of his toes, and he's grunting into her temples.

"Ow," he laughs, squeezing her back just as tight.

more

She can feel his hook pressing beneath her ribcage, just a bit too hard, can feel her toes going numb beneath the pinch of her her shoes, the muggy dampness on his shoulders seeping into hers, the chill grabbing at her bones. She's never been more uncomfortable in her life.

She's never been this _comfortable_ in her _entire_ _life_.

"Killian," she says. To him. _To him_. Instead of to the lifeless monolith that bears his name.

"Emma," he answers, and she can hear the warble in his voice, can feel the sob in his chest. "Emma, Emma, my love, my _Swan_."

She hangs on, just that bit tighter, relishing the way her coat sags, the way he drags his lips over every bit of skin he can find without having to pull away. But she's tired, so very tired, and the droplets are beginning to trickle their way down her pants, down, down, until they tighten the wool in her stockings, until she's flexing her fingers and trembling in his arms, curling her leg behind his until her calf presses into his.

"Let's go home," he says.

She nods, but doesn't let him go, grasping at the lapels of his coat, pulling and standing even straighter atop his feet, so she can press kisses to the top of his head, anywhere she can reach, everywhere she couldn't until now.

"I know - " he starts, cut off by a firm kiss to his mouth.

"How you feel - " to the corners of his lips.

"About wet - " another, tongue pressing firmly against his teeth.

"Wet socks," he finishes, laughing again, half in pain as she stomps all over his toes.

She laughs in turn, soaked in sadness as it is, still riding the joy, the _relief._

" _Home_ ," she says, like she's saying it for the first time. She leans back so she can look in his eyes, oh his _eyes_ , gemstones in a sea of ash, bright lights in the darkness.

Her lips warble, the longer she looks at him, chin trembling, eyes filling with tears, biting her lip to hold them back.

"It's okay to cry," he whispers, drawing his fingers over her cheeks before the tears even fall, catching them with his fingers, with his lips, answering her tears with his own, more falling as she reaches up to follow suit, hands mapping the dips and curves of his face.

"Come on, love," he says, voice rough. "Let's get you out of those wet socks. They're surely ruined by now."

She, ever so reluctantly, lets him go, just enough so that they can walk in the same direction without taking a tumble into the mud. That isn't to say they move with any grace, looking at one another - with hope, with love, with joy, dimmed with regret, sorrow, mourning - as they go.

"It's okay," she says.

"Hm?" he says, pulling her fingers, which are wrapped firmly around his hook, up to his lips.

"The socks. They're yours anyways."

He smiles, wide -

"Nonsense."

\- and he stops them again, expression slipping into something more serious.

"It's all _yours_ ," he says. "All of it. All of me."

She can't stand it - not being in his arms, walking besides him when she could be pressed against him - and so she leaps back into his arms, beneath the rain, in the storm in the cold.

"All of me," he repeats.

And she answers, warmly, "Me too."


	2. I Love You

Notes: A post 5x23 episode tag. Includes fluff and kisses.

* * *

"I love you," she tells him, on a Wednesday afternoon.

Nevermind the fact that there's a new round of storybook characters filtering into Granny's, nor that she's sure they're about to give them quite the show. She can see it in the tilt of his smile, the dimples that jump along the angled line of his smile. She can feel his kiss before his lips even land on hers. She can feel it in the gleam in his eyes, in the hand warm at her back, on the curve of his hook, picking at her sweater.

Killian breathes in through his nose, and out through his mouth, and she can feel his answer on his tongue, as he draws it over the ridges on the roof of her mouth. She can feel it in the subtle burn of his stubble over the skin of her jaw, when he sets her down and presses his cheek to hers.

"Oh, Swan," he says, straight into her ear. "I love you too."

* * *

"I love you," she tells him, on a Saturday morning.

He's bleary and mussed – so is she, for that matter – wearing just the one sock, pajama bottoms swinging low on his hips. His shirt, wanting for literally _any_ buttons, is hanging open, swirling with a flourish as he searches for his brace. The sleeves are pushed to his elbows, the collar is half tucked by his neck, his hair has a sleep addled mind of its own.

"I love you," she tells him again, when he stops in his search.

Killian blinks against the light fluttering in through the windows, and smiles on the turn of the breeze. He abandons all pretense of morning, and climbs straight into bed. He crawls up the covers, losing his lone sock on the way. He settles back in besides her, pulls at the sheet until it covers her shoulders. He kisses at her jaw, beneath her ear, the jut of her chin. He presses his lips against hers, just enough for her to feel the stretch of his smile.

"Emma," he answers. "My Swan."

Then he draws his tongue over her bottom lip, and settles his head over her heart.

"I love you too," he says.

* * *

"I love you," she tells him, on a Monday night.

Henry's long since been asleep. Killian nearly had to haul him up the stairs. He'd come back down with shadows living in the hidden corners of his face, his eyes, in the subtle downturn of his lips. He'd wandered to the window, a jitter in the rhythm of his steps. He'd pressed his hand against the chilly window pane, breathing hurt against the glass.

So she'd wandered as well, bare feet scuffing against the floor. She in turn, had pressed her hand against the small of his back, breathing hope against his neck.

"Do you ever…" he starts. He clenches his fingers, until the blood drains, skin pale in the moonlight. He breathes. Over and over. And she waits. Beat after beat.

"Do you ever think on all that we've lost?" he says.

She leans her head against the ridge of his spine, nods so that he can feel. Harmless darkness swallows them up, the lights flickering dim with a twist of her wrist.

"I love you," she says, and she can hear the wan smile in the dip of his voice.

"Love you too."

* * *

"I love you," she tells him, Thursday at lunch.

He'd found her hunched over a pile of work at the station, a crick in her neck and a sigh in her chest.

Now he sits across from her, skeptical tilt to his brow as he eyes what she'd told him was an obligatory, weekly _breakfast for lunch_. There's whipped cream in his mouth when she tells him, between his teeth when he smiles in reply.

"You too," he mouths, around his food, in an effort to get her to smile.

It works.

* * *

"I love you," she tells him, at three in the morning.

"What?" he slurs, eyes jolting open.

"Love you," she whispers, again.

"Swan," he says, and turns into her side, whining softly against the skin of her neck. "Bloody hell, love…I love you too."

She laughs, scratches her fingers over his scalp.

"Go back to sleep, Killian."

* * *

"I love you," she tells him, sick with the flu, turning into the gentle brush of his fingers against her cheek.

"I love you," she tells him, ice cream on her tongue as they walk by the beach.

"I love you," she tells him, soap slick on his skin as he kisses her beneath the spray of water.

* * *

"Emma," he says, on a dreary midnight walk.

His hand is tucked in hers as they go. The streetlamps catch the haze of oncoming rain. Stars yet twinkle in the sky, between the rushing clouds. The breeze turns her hair over her shoulder, sets her into his side in a gentle bid for warmth.

"Yeah?" she says, into the leather stretched over his shoulder.

He stops her by a lamppost, tilted along a crack in the sidewalk, smile in his eyes, the light in his hair.

"I love you," he tells her. He leans forward, lips over her jaw – "I love you." – the curve of her ear – "I love you." – the corners of her lips.

Emma leans back, even as she presses forward, drawing her hands beneath his jacket. She watches him smile, feels him breathe, listens to him laugh when she wrinkles her nose against the first drop of rain.

"I know," she says. "I know you do."

"Aye," he answers, and again, over a rumble of thunder, "Aye. And I, you."

He kisses her in a storm, loves her through it, too, like he always does, like she always will, and the last curl of fear in her belly melts away with the rain.


	3. won't you carry me home

Summary: Killian Jones discovers his Swan likes to be carried.

Notes: For kindredsspirits on tumblr. Includes fluff and light smut. Smut appears between the third and fourth page break.

* * *

It was the kiss, he thinks.

There, when she'd held her breath, cast her eyes down towards his feet. There, when the words had come spilling out of her mouth, for no other reason than that she wanted to tell him, wanted him to hear. And there, when he'd thrown his arms around her with abandon, bunching up the soft knit of her sweater in the palm of his hand, hook squeaking lightly over the leather of her jacket as he'd lifted her off her feet.

It was the rush of breath out of her mouth, the way she'd anchored her hands in his hair, tilted her head so she could curl her tongue around his. It was the pleased grunt bubbling in the back of her throat as he'd leaned back, until the warm weight of her belly pressed against his, until he could feel her heartbeat thrumming off the rhythm of his own.

But most of all, it was the way her knees nearly buckled when he set her back down, her toes scraping uselessly against the sidewalk, the way she clutched at his shoulders, protest in the grind of her jaw, the drag of her teeth over his lower lip.

"Emma," he'd said. He'd _laughed_ , really, her hands holding fast to the side of his face as she kissed along his jaw. " _Emma_. Put your feet down. I can't carry you forever, love."

And he'd meant to make her laugh, but there was a subtle downturn to her lips, a heavy sigh breathed against the side of his face. She'd nodded, taking gentle hold of his hook with both of her hands, and led him inside. He'd thought her sorrowful at first, at least remiss to let go of him, as he was of her. But he'd spotted the blinds stirring over her shoulder, disapproving fingers plucking away at the plastic the longer and the harder he'd held her.

"Rather not give them a show, darling," he'd said.

And she'd answered with an ethereal smile, eyes the color of a sky just on the edge of a raging storm, clashing beautifully with the flowers and vines winding up and down the trellis at her back –

"Yeah."

At which point – breathing one last sigh into the slope of her neck, wriggling his fingers under her sweater to pinch lightly at her waist – he'd forgotten all about it, the uneasiness in her gait, wan frown on her face. About how tightly she'd held onto him, how boneless she'd seemed, how terribly reluctant she was to stand on her own.

That is, until now, here in their home, some days later.

"It was the kiss," he says.

Emma hums, curled up beneath a seemingly uncountable number of blankets and throws, tucked beside the armrest of the couch, her hair a riot and clothes askew.

"What?" she says.

"Nothing," he answers, though he knows she heard, can see the soft, warily expectant look in her eyes.

She protests weakly when he tosses the hefty heap of blankets to the floor –

"Are you ever not cold, Swan?"

"Nope."

– but hums, content, when he gathers her up into his arms.

"You don't have to carry me," she says, softly, lips brushing against his ear.

 _Please carry me_ , he hears.

She shivers, and he holds her tighter, urges her to curl around him – her knees up by his chest, her arms locked around his neck. Here on the cusp of midnight, windows thrown open against the breeze, the chilly air ruffles her hair, and stirs the thin, threadbare shirt hanging off her shoulders. Her breath puffs warm against his face, and her fingers curl against his jaw.

"Nonsense," he tells her, when he lays her down on the bed. "I'd carry you anywhere."

She sighs, and pulls him down beside her.

"I know."

* * *

Emma Swan likes to be carried.

Killian wonders if she's only just realized. Since he kissed a hearty _I love you_ straight into her mouth in the blinding light of a late, spring afternoon, she's taken to falling asleep in the living room, to leaning heavily on the crook of his arm, to letting her knees fall loose when she pulls him into a kiss. And each time she does it, she seems almost…apprehensive. Because she knows that he knows, just _knows_ , the same way she knows that he avoids the lake. Avoids the park that stretches, quiet and ominous beside it.

But she doesn't want to say it.

So he merely quirks a brow, and smiles, when he drops by the station at the end of her shift.

"Are you going to get up, Swan?"

She scoffs, sinks down in her chair, until her feet are flat against the floor, leaning heavy against the seat. Her hair falls loosely over her shoulder, hiding one half of her face. She peers up at him from beneath her lashes, teeth peeking out from between her lips.

"The car's all the way out there," she says.

He laughs, and mirrors her pout, the whinging lilt to her voice.

"Not _all_ the way out there," he says, aghast. He leans against the door frame to her office, taps his hook against the faded, painted metal. The heavy _thud thud_ echoes loud and tinny alongside the pattering rain.

She snorts, wrinkles her nose. "I've been here for _fourteen hours_ , most of it spent flopping around in the world's most uncomfortable chair. I think my butt is going to fall off."

He laughs, harder. "We're but twenty paces from your salvation, my love."

She eyes him, then looks out the window. The rain falls hard and heavy, straight down upon the ground. Muddy, ephemeral rivers rush down the side of the road. Rumbles of thunder echo dimly from the west. Then she turns back to him.

"Just go on without me," she says, with a familiar air of dramatics.

He bites at his lower lip, regards her for a moment before he closes the distance between them with hardly a single step. He sweeps her up into his arms, and though he's certain it's what she wanted, she still seems surprised, a startled noise slipping out from between her teeth, puffing over his face as he holds her close.

"For the sake of your arse," he says.

Her laughter follows them all the way out the door, down the hall, and into the downpour.

* * *

"I just feel bad," she says, against the jut of his chin.

Killian is walking slowly along the beach on a cloudy afternoon, boots sinking softly into the sand. Her boots and socks have long since been abandoned, under the pretense of a hatred for sand in her shoes. Her chest is pressed along his back. He can feel each breath she takes, can feel her breasts against his shoulder blades. He listens to the gentle lap of the water against the shore, watches the gulls circle overhead. He breathes in the smell of salt, of algae, feels the grit of mud between his fingertips.

"Why's that?" he says.

He can feel her shrug, too. She reaches down, down until her fingertips are scratching through the hair on his chest, pressing the vernal chill into his flesh.

"Here you are…" she says, and hefts herself up, so she can curl her chin over his shoulder. "…lugging me around the beach, and I can't even return the favor."

He laughs. "You can carry me any time you wish, love."

"Pretty sure I _tried_ , and we all lived to regret it."

He shakes his head, and keeps along his wandering path, until they reach the rocks on the north end of the bay, and he picks his away along the sea wall. The longer she rests against him, the straighter she pulls at the lines of his back, and an ache settles along the ridge of his spine. But her hair tickles against his neck, catches in the scruff on his jaw. She smells of lavender and leather, and she feels of boundless trust, the loose heft to her limbs as vulnerable as the words she often whispers on the edge of night.

So he answers –

"You do carry me, Emma."

She hums, and he sets her down, gently, into the push and pull of the tide. She bites the smile from her lips, and presses up on her toes, a bit shocked by the chill of the water, he imagines. He turns, looks down at her, and smiles. He brushes her hair over her shoulder, nudges at the turn of her jaw.

"You _do_ carry me," he repeats.

And she smiles, speaks straight into his mouth –

"I know."

* * *

"You like to be carried."

"Uh," she says, words caught in her throat.

He pulls her shirt over her head – his hand brushes heavy over her skin, over her chest, back around to the ridge of her spine – and she picks at the buckles of his brace. Cotton and metal alike both fall to the floor in a heap, even as he falls to his knees. He drags her pants down her legs, follows the trail with his mouth.

"It's alright," he says, from between her legs.

"Uh," she says, again, when he closes his mouth over her heated flesh. "Do we have to talk about this now?"

"Darling," he says, replaces his mouth with his fingers when he rests his chin against her thigh. "You've just told me you love me. There's not a stitch of fabric between us – "

"Your socks are still on."

" – _barely_ a stitch of fabric between us. If you like to be carried. If you like _anything_ , if you _need_ anything, _please_ love…"

He trails off as his fingers draw her higher and higher. He pulls his fingers back, dipping into her while he works at her, gently, with the flat of his tongue. She falls, trembling, not a minute later, sweat beading at her brow, a crystalline haze dulling the flecks of gold in her eyes. He stands, leaves a wet, wandering both up her body – along the jut of her hips, between the swell of her breasts, over the cords of muscle twisting up her neck.

"Please, Emma," he says, at length. He wraps his arms around her, firm at the small of her back. He lifts, until her toes just barely touch the floor. "Just tell me."

He looks down at her, and she looks up at him. She gnaws on her bottom lip, breathes deep and long before she says –

"It just…seems silly, I guess. After everything we've been through. To whine about having to _walk_ , of all things…"

He smiles, presses his forehead against hers. "My Swan, my love." He pauses, shakes his head. "Do you or do you not draw pictures on my back, at my request?"

She looks down at his lips, tries in vain to hide her smile. "I mean, yeah, but – "

"And do I not then _guess_ at what you're drawing, much to your consternation?"

Emma laughs, and he can feel it against his chest, straight down to his bones.

"Too bad you suck at guessing," she says.

He hums, lifts her higher, until they're eye to eye, presses her back against the wall. "Your questionable drawing skills aside – "

" _Hey_."

" – I would do anything." He stops, urges her higher, coaxes her legs around his waist. He nudges his lips against hers, presses her harder against the wall to free his left arm, to caress her side, her arm, her thigh, and back again. She reaches down, takes him in hand, and he shudders, puffs warm, wet breath over her shoulder.

"Anything," he says, and he slips inside. When he settles, flush against her, she grasps at the nape of his neck, pulls him back, looks down at him. He's at a loss for words, but he speaks to her nonetheless, with the tilt of his brow, with the flare of his nostrils, and she back, with the hitch in her breath, the clutch of her fingers.

"I – " she starts, and cries out, softly, when he shifts, bringing him closer, deeper. "I like it."

He quirks a brow, ruts, slowly. "Like what?"

She rolls her eyes, half in pleasure as pulls back yet again, half in exasperation.

"When you carry me," she says. Then, whispering, "I like it."

"Aye," he says, and she urges him on, to quicken the pace. Sweat trickles down her neck, pools in the hollow behind her collarbone. A beautiful flush creeps down her neck, and he follows it with his lips. "Aye, love."

Emma tightens her thighs around his waist, pushes at his shoulders until he leans back. She blinks, and smiles, shines down at him, and he watches as the shadows swirling in her eyes dissipate.

"Will you carry me?" she says.

He smiles. "Of course, love."

* * *

"It was the kiss," he says.

Emma lays, full and supine atop him, long into the hours of night. Her hands are planted on either side of his head as she looks down at him. Her hair curls to one side of her face, sweat drying it into gentle ringlets by her brow, down by the arch of neck. She leans down on her elbows, stretches until her toes tickle down his shin. She presses her lips against his, just enough so that when she speaks, even quieter than the night singing softly through the window, he can feel it more so than he can hear it.

"What was the kiss?" she says.

"How I knew. That you liked to be carried."

"Oh."

She lets her hands curl around his neck, pressing her cheek against his. She breathes, slow and measured. And he waits.

"I do," she says, at length. She sighs, and leans back, staring just above his eyes, reaching up to smooth her fingers over his brow. "I love you."

He smiles. "I love you too."

"Even though you're _still_ wearing your socks."

And he laughs.

* * *

Killian wakes to one hand scratching through his hair, the other tapping gently against his stomach. He opens his eyes, squints against the light fluttering in through the bay window, ears twitching against the song of the blackbirds.

"Emma," he sighs, reaches up to thumb at her cheek.

She smiles, and her eyes glitter in the dawn. A rush of affection settles low in the pit of his belly, and his jaw thrums with the force of his grin. He drags his fingers, lightly down the side of face, along her collarbone. He brushes against the underside of her breasts as draws a meandering path to her hip, pulling until she leans over him. He kisses her, a light press of his lips against hers, the faintest brush of his tongue over her bottom teeth.

"You're up early, love," he says, against the corner of her mouth.

She leans back, palm flat against his chest. She smiles, again, toothless, crinkles around her eyes.

"Yeah, about that," she says. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that I don't plan on walking _anywhere_ today."

He laughs. "Oh?"

She tilts her head, and her hair falls over her shoulder, tickles at the skin of his arm.

"Yeah," she says. "Carry me?"

He turns on his side, takes hold of her fingers, speaks his answer against her palm.

"As you wish."


	4. Flippies Friday 1

Summary: Emma and Killian, the pleasures of fall, and the benefits of forgetting to cut one's hair.

Just a little tiny plotless fic in celebration of Flippies Friday on tumblr. Set vaguely in the future, when everything is wonderful. This is definitely not as much about hair as I originally intended, but oh well. Also, no particular warnings for this chapter. Just fluff and conversation.

* * *

There's something about the wind, Emma muses, something cool and weightless. Like she could fly if she put her mind to it. It drifts easily through the trees, whose leaves quiver precariously on the ends of dried branches. It carries the familiar, cold smell of decay, the almost cloying scent of flowers certain to be dead by the end of the month. The thought should be more depressing than it is –

"Do you think _flowers_ go to the Underworld?" she'd asked Killian, just the day before.

"You've only had _one_ sip of rum, Swan, certainly not enough for this macabre line of inquiry."

– but, strangely, it's not. Likely it has to do with the pleasant feeling of the grass in her hands, soft and cool and tender. Or the water on her feet, warm and buzzing with the sorts of creatures that replace the one that leave when summer falls. Or it's the quiet, the peace, the complete lack of duty and expectation on a _normal_ , Saturday evening. When she'd wandered off only an hour ago, she'd almost expected a crisis to follow. But her phone is silent in her pocket, and the faint buzz in her fingertips that seems to precede disaster is absent. She's surrounded only by trees, by bushes, by the chill of September turning towards October, and the contentment of a rest well earned.

"It's fall, is what I'm saying," she says to the dragonfly on the fern by her knee. Too plump for the fronds to which it clings, but too stubborn to leave, or too tired.

"I feel you, buddy," she says.

"Swan?"

There's _surely_ something about his voice, Emma thinks, warm and heavy against the wind. She smiles, clutches harder at the grass by her side, though she doesn't turn to look at him, instead looking up and out against the pond. She moves her feet, and watches the wake, swallowed quickly by the weight of the water. On a day like today, the ponds edging Storybrooke – out where the woods are patchy and the air is always turning – are like mirrors. They turn the world upside down. So when Killian leans over her, shins pressing lightly into her back, it turns his smile back at her with almost unbearable clarity. She tilts her head to the side, and he to the other.

"You're mad," Killian says. "Aren't your feet bloody freezing?"

Emma shakes her head, and still doesn't look at him, not until he settles beside her, his hip warm against hers, his hook heavy and cool through the fabric of her jeans. When she does, the curious look on his face melts quickly into a beautiful smile. It often does, anymore.

"You're happy today," she says. Not that she means to. The words just fall out of her mouth. He quirks a brow, but doesn't answer her, not for the moment. He regards her up and down, eyes dripping slowly down her hair, following her legs down to her feet. When he looks back, he leans forward, presses his forehead into the swell of her cheek. He breathes, and she can feel it – warm and wet – down against the collar of her shirt.

"Aye," he says, quietly. Several moments pass in silence, and the chatter of the critters around them picks up. She splashes her feet, and it seems to echo, as though they're in a cavern. Killian lifts his head, then, though he's still close enough that he can feel his breath wash gently over her face when he says –

"So tell me, love. How is it that you, notorious blanket thief, bearer of often _multiple_ pairs of socks even on balmy summer nights, can stand to have your feet submerged in autumn waters?"

Emma laughs, and scoots forward, until the water is lapping at the rolled hems of her pants. She tugs on his hook until he follows, though he keeps his shoes away from the pond, heels braced on the grass, where it tapers rather suddenly down into the muddy bottom.

"It's _warm_ ," she says, sighs the words into his shoulder as she swishes her feet back and forth. "Come on, try it out."

Killian looks at her skeptically, even as he divests himself of his shoes and socks, throwing them carelessly over his shoulders. She leans over to yank impatiently at his jeans, until his bare feet hover just over the surface.

"How can I be certain you're not putting one over on me, eh, Swan?" he says, toes curling in the breeze. "Is this like the time you tried to convince me the waters of the harbor make for good swimming?"

Emma rolls her eyes, though she can't help but smile, not with the way he braces his hook on the ground between her legs, nearly halfway in her lap as he debates whether or not to drop his feet down in beside hers.

"The harbor _is_ good for swimming," she says. "You're just a water snob."

"The mere notion that anyone would _swim_ in such muddied, unclean water is horrifying."

"Oh just – " Emma cuts herself off, pushing hard on his shoulder so that his feet have nowhere to go _but_ the water. He makes a soft noise of protest, though it tapers off when his feet knock against hers, and the soft, mellow pond warms his wiggling toes.

"It's _warm_ ," he says.

"I told you so."

Killian hums, though he's content to remain quiet. He breathes deeply, and as she watches him, she follows suit. The sun tilts lower in the sky, brushing lightly against the tops of the trees. The light falls just as lightly around his head, highlighting the lighter shades. Emma leans forward, and catches the scent of his soap on yet another breeze that twirls between them. Turning her head, the light catches even brighter in the longer hairs the flip up and out at his neck, where the collar of his jacket is turned up against the chilly onset of fall. The longer she looks – gazes while he drinks in the stretch of the pond out ahead of him, turning his head idly from side to side – the tighter her belly twists, disbelieving that has the chance to _keep_ him.

"How did you know I was here?" she says.

He turns to answer her, and the sun catches even brighter in his hair, framing the untamed strands by his neck, by his ears. Before he can say anything, she laughs, and reaches up to tug on one particular tuft of hair growing out by his nape.

"Goddammit," she says, good-naturedly. "I swear your hair just up and _decides_ to grow two inches on random days."

Killian laughs, and leans forward so she can reach the top of his head, where a stubborn little swoop sways by his eyes.

"It gets away from me, Swan. For much happier reasons now than before."

Emma hums, choosing resolutely _not_ to think of the last time his hair had been nearly this wild. Instead she tugs harder, at which Killian's eyelashes flutter. He scoots closer still, until one of his legs rests between hers. The sun falls further still, until the wind lifts the branches of the trees up into the light. It dapples all around them, and the air grows colder, the water tepid. She knows she ought to move, but Killian's very nearly fallen into her, and the brush of his hair between her fingers is too idyllic to give up.

"I felt it," he says. Emma looks up at him, confusion wrinkling her nose, while he pulls himself groggily from the banks, wriggling the hems of his pants back into place before offering her the curve of his hook.

"What?" she says, hefting herself to standing.

Killian smiles, pulling his socks and shoes on with relative ease. Relative, that is, to the hopping she does before her own are back on her feet.

"You asked how I knew you were here," he says. He offers her his arm, though he makes no movement back towards town. "I felt it."

The thing about autumn, Emma realizes, is that once night begins to fall, it does so quickly. The wind begins to blow, rustling loudly through the trees and shrubs. The brilliant green of September begins to dull in the waning light. And the thing about waning light is that it somehow manages to highlight the earnest, almost boyish expressions that Killian wears when he tells her how much he loves her, when she tells him how much she loves him in return. Maybe not in so many words, but in her own sort of way when she reaches up to tug once more at the flips of hair – now wilder than she's ever seen them – by his temples, and by his neck, for no reason other than to see his smile widen.

"You felt that I was ignoring everyone and hanging out by the pond?" Emma jokes.

"I felt that you were _happy_ , darling. There's nothing more alluring."

"Not even my little red dress?"

He smiles. "Close. But _no_."

Killian's smile fades, and she can see what he says, silently. It's written in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, in the dimples that pull lower and lower until they disappear. In the twist of his lips as his feet nudge between hers. _I love you_ , she hears. And she answers with her hands in his hair. Both of them, wandering about until he hums so low, she can feel it deep in her belly.

 _I love you too._

"I figure I'm due a cut, then?" he says.

Emma grips tighter, bringing both hands to a peak, until the strands fall almost comically out of place. He _ought_ to look ridiculous. Instead, it makes him look younger, impossibly so, and her heart dances against her ribs. She turns her head first to one side, then the other, watching his nostrils flare, glancing down to watch his chest rise and fall, warm breath slight against her chin, her lips nearly brushing his when she answers –

"Some other time."


End file.
